He waited until the sacred hubbub had subsided, then performed the gestures appropriate to the encounter. He almost said, “I am Filidor Vesh...,” but remembered in time his uncle’s warning to travel incognito, and indicated instead that his name was Gaskarth, and that he was a gentleman at leisure from Olkney, out to see some of the world.
The older man indicated that Filidor should sit amongst them, and said, “I am Erslan Flastovic.” He paused then as if expecting Filidor to recognize the name, but seeing no light in the young man’s window, continued in a hopeful tone, “Of Flastovic’s Incomparable Mummery Troupe and Raree Exposition?”
Filidor’s face now illuminated with an expression which gratified Flastovic’s expectations, for it was the very troupe which the Archon’s apprentice had briefly watched the evening before, in the Square of the Indentors on his way to The Prodigious Palate. Though that had been the first time he had actually seen such an exposition, he had a vague notion, drawn from a comment by a lordly acquaintance who occasionally retreated to an estate beyond the hamlet of Binch, down at the landward end of the Olkney Peninsula, that such entertainments were more common in the ruder areas outside the city. Shows like Flastovic’s traveled from one rustic patch to another, diverting the bucolic with dramatizations of simple tales and homilies.
Flastovic introduced the others. “This is my spouse, Gavne,” he said, indicating the older woman, who answered Filidor’s inclination of the head with a placid smile, “and my daughter, Chloe.”
This close, Filidor could see that the young woman was not far beyond girlhood. She turned briefly toward him, offered a wry look, then returned to her retrospection of the receding shore, which was now not much more than a glow in the night sky above the horizon.
“And these two gentlemen are the celebrated Florrey Twins, Ches and Isbister, as I’m sure you already know.”
“Of course,” Filidor said again, without revealing that whatever cause the brothers had to a claim of celebrity was unknown to him. They were truly identical, both blond, narrow of feature and slim of build, dressed alike in black with silver accents. One of them had probably played the role of Badrey Huzzantz the night before, but Filidor could not have said which.
“I am Ches,” said the one on the right. “We are bound for Scullaway Point tonight. There we will unship our land vessel, a twenty-wheeled Steadfast groundeater which affords us a combination of transportation, living quarters and a folding proscenium stage. We shall mount up, travel south to Thurloyn Vale then work our way east, spending the summer idling from town to town in the dales west of Dimfen Moor. We anticipate a glorious run, and fine notices in the local periodicals.”
“You have seen our work?” asked the other Florrey.
“I chanced to see a few moments of it last night while passing through Indentors Square on my way to dinner,” answered Filidor. “Very interesting.”
“How could it not be,” said Flastovic, while Gavne nodded companionably, “when we bring to glittering life the deathless works of that inimitable artist, The Bard Obscure?”
Here, amidst the adjectives, was a name Filidor recognized. He knew that the dramatist had flourished centuries before, but there had been some kind of controversy -- no one now remembered the details -- which had led to a thorough expunging of his name and a destruction of all copies of his plays. It was generally believed that the playwright himself had ordered the devastation, though a minority view held that he had angered powerful forces.
In any case, the attempt to expunge was unsuccessful. Though all records were destroyed, the works still existed in the memories of actors who had performed them. Out of those recollections grew a novel tradition: the plays were never again written down, but a special class of thespian arose -- those who had committed The Bard Obscure’s entire corpus to memory. That was all Filidor knew about the subject, but he spoke with the air of one who could have said a great deal more.
“The lines are voiced by a disclamator,” confirmed Flastovic. “He stands aside and speaks while we performers silently contribute the accompanying poses and actions. A demanding profession, the disclamator’s; master practitioners are few and much sought after.”
“We work with Ovile Germolian,” put in one of the Florrey brothers, in a tone that told Filidor they expected him to be impressed.
“Indeed,” he replied, feigning exactly that impression. The purple Pwyfus was inclining him toward mischief. He was deriving an odd enjoyment from pretending to know more than he did. Normally, to discover that he lacked some knowledge that all around him seemed to possess tended to depress his spirits, but here he felt like a cunning agent of an espionic service, duplicitously blending in with his surroundings. The deception wouldn’t matter: he would not see these people again.
The wine also seemed to be sharpening his perceptions. He noted that at the mention of Germolian’s name a look passed from mother to daughter, in which a tinge of worried disapproval briefly troubled Gavne’s placid facade. The returned sentiment on the girl’s face was a resentment scarcely concealed, an elevation of the nose, and a return of her gaze to the window.
Erslan Flastovic seemed to notice nothing amiss, and weighed in with praises for the great disclamator. “Remarkable speaking voice, Germolian, goes without saying,” said the leader of the troupe. “But his genius is in the timing. He knows to the very nanenth when to hold the pause and when to break it.”
Filidor was about to offer a glib confirmation of the analysis when a tiny sound close by his left ear caused him to turn his head. There was nothing there. He thought at first that it must have been a resonance from one of the Tabernaclists’s sacred noisemakers, but now he saw that the cultists had left the saloon while he had been speaking with the mummers.
He realized that the others were regarding him quizzically. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I thought I heard...”
The sound came again, a very faint chime. “Did you hear that?” he asked the others, and was met with “Nos” and shaken heads from the older members of the troupe, and a twist of the lips from Chloe that indicated a declining confidence in the soundness of his mind.
“Ship’s integrator,” Filidor said, and was answered by a chime -- much louder -- and a voice that said, “What do you require?”
“Were you attempting to attract my attention just now?”
“I regret, sir,” the ship said, “there is so much to do in making sure that this vessel, its passengers and its contents are delivered safe and whole to its next port of call, that I lack the leisure to nudge persons at random. If you are hearing sounds you cannot account for, it may be time to consider the quantity of wine you have consumed to be enough for one sitting.”
“That will be all,” said Filidor.
“As you say,” said the integrator and went back to its duties.
The members of Flastovic’s troupe regarded Filidor speculatively. “I thought..,” he said, then decided that the incident would be better left behind. “Never mind.”
The conversation returned briefly to the works of The Bard Obscure, but somehow the verve had been lost. Filidor then mentioned that he had heard that there existed, within the Archonate’s vast archives, a voice recording of all the playmaker’s works. The suggestion scandalized the mummers.
“Far be it from me to decry the Archonate,” said Flastovic, while his spouse nodded in agreement.
“A wonderful institution,” said one of the Florrey brothers, while the other said, “And fully necessary.”
Chloe merely looked at the ceiling as if there were someone there who shared her mood, as her father continued with, “But it’s a reprehensible concept. The Bard Obscure’s works are not to be recorded, therefore no one should do so.”
Ches nodded and said, “Just so. The works were his personal property. His wishes must be paramount.”
“But he wanted them destroyed, or so I�
��ve heard,” said Filidor. “Yet you go about performing them.”
“If he’d wanted them destroyed, he’d have killed all the actors who had them in memory,” said Ches. “He didn’t, so that can’t be what he wanted.”
There was a flaw in the man’s reasoning, Filidor knew, but the purple Pwyfus was obscuring it from his vision.
Isbister moved the discussion back to ground that he favored. “The main issue is that the works are of universal import,” he said, “and thus they should be available to all. The needs of the many must prevail.”
At this, Ches rounded on his brother, saying, “As ever, your contentions are vapid. That which belongs to all belongs to none. If tomorrow a new Bard Obscure should arrive to grace our civilization, why then should he strive to create wonders, if they are only to be plucked from his grasp and thrown to a frittering rabble?”
Isbister drew himself erect and returned fire. “Your views are entirely idiosyncratic. What value have his works if the world cannot enjoy them? The thing that the artist prizes most -- his renown -- is predicated on his productions being widely appreciated.”
Filidor sensed that he was witnessing only an episode in a long-standing disagreement between the brothers, unlikely to be resolved but certain to become tiresome. To deflect the course of the conversation, he inquired after the whereabouts of the disclamator Ovile Germolian.
“Well timed,” said Flastovic, “for yonder he comes.”
The young man looked up to see, coming toward them, a man of early middle age, whose handsome face bespoke languid intelligence through which a discerning eye might detect an inclination toward self-gratification, the kind of man who would not hesitate to take more than his share, but would do so with practiced grace.
Filidor noted that the young woman’s eyes grew slightly larger and darker as she turned them toward the disclamator. He saw also the small vertical line that appeared between her mother’s eyebrows and the slight drawing down at the corners of Gavne’s mouth. Then he stood up and greeted the newcomer in an appropriate way.
“Are you in any way connected with the life?” asked Germolian, when he had chosen a seat close enough to Chloe that he must surely feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. It took Filidor a moment to realize that the “life” referred to was that of show folk.
“No,” he said, “I am but a gadabout, taking a taste of the world.”
Upon hearing that, Germolian turned away as if Filidor had ceased to register upon his senses, and began a conversation with the Florreys. But it seemed to Filidor that, though the disclamator’s focus rested on the twins, he was at no time unaware of the young woman beside him, nor of her mother’s displeasure.
Flastovic seemed to be aware of none of this. He leaned toward Filidor and tapped the young man’s knee. “We have planned to rehearse one of The Bard Obscure’s pieces -- just text and gestures, you understand; no costumes. Would you care to watch and perhaps offer an appreciation?”
“Delighted,” said Filidor.
Ovile Germolian regarded him with half-lidded eyes. “Are you experienced in the art of the critique?” he asked.
“I can distinguish the artful from the artless,” Filidor sent back.
“Indeed?” said the disclamator, and let his gaze wander away.
Flastovic stood up. “Places, please,” he said.
Filidor rose with the others, and moved away from them as they pushed back the chairs and cleared a small space, into the middle of which the leader of the troupe stepped, assuming an air of preparedness. Ovile Germolian drew himself to one side, and turned away from the group, as if to address an unseen audience. The twins and the two women stepped backwards, so that it was obvious that Filidor should turn his eyes upon Erslan Flastovic.
“Ready?” said the leader. Germolian cleared his throat. The others nodded. Flastovic inclined his head toward Filidor and said, “You’ll have to imagine the masks and paraphernalia.” Then to the company, he said, “Begin.”
“The Terrible Hand of Fate,” declaimed Germolian, in a voice that Filidor found oddly stirring. “By The Bard Obscure.”
There was a dignified pause, then the disclamator continued, in a deep and sonorous tone. “There was a man who conceived that his neighbor had done him a terrible grievance. He brooded upon his apprehended injury, until he resolved to be revenged of it.”
Erslan Flastovic had assumed a posture that turned his whole body into a frown, hands clenched, jaws clamped and shoulders indrawn. At Germolian’s last words, his head came up and his chin jutted forth as he raised a fist to the air.
“The avenger cut himself a strong cudgel of blackest ferrick and went to his neighbor’s home, said Germolian. “He struck the door a fearsome blow and called the man’s name.”
Flastovic mimed the shaping of the club and the striking of the door.
“But the neighbor had left earlier that day, and there was no one at home. The blow to the door was answered by the device intended to announce visitors and take messages when none was available to welcome them.
Now Chloe stepped into the central space, adopting an attitude of serene helpfulness.
Germolian continued the tale. “’Who is it?’ asked the device.
“’It is the terrible hand of fate,’ declared the man with the cudgel,” Flastovic struck the pose of a man in pursuit of destiny as the rolling voice continued the story.
“But the avenger’s buffet had damaged the mechanism that answered the door, and it could make no further reply.”
Chloe gazed placidly into space.
“So now the avenger smote the door an even heavier blow.”
Flastovic raged against the air. Chloe turned politely in his direction.
“’Who is it?’ said the answerer.”
Flastovic shook his fist as Germolian declaimed, “’It is the terrible hand of fate!’” and Chloe remained blissfully unmoved.
“Again, there was no reply, and again the man struck the portal with huge violence, so that the cudgel split in his hand.”
Flastovic portrayed a man driven to burst his every inner restraint. Chloe turned to him with poised serenity.
“’Who is it?’ asked the device, and this time the avenger was driven into such a paroxysm of rage that when he cried, ‘It is the terrible hand of fate!’ he was struck by an apoplexy, and fell down dead upon the doorstep.”
Flastovic jerked and spun himself in two directions at once, then flung his body to the carpet, where he twitched once, then twice, before assuming a deathly stillness. Now the Florreys and Gavne drew in and gazed down at him in postures of wonder and speculation, while the girl still stared unconcernedly into space.
“Drawn by the commotion, people came from the nearby houses and found the man lying dead upon his cudgel.
“’Who is it?’ they said.”
Now Chloe turned to face the unseen audience, her expression still empty of all but the mildest hope of accommodating, as the disclamator spoke the final line. “And the doorway said, ‘It is the terrible hand of fate.’”
Filidor brought his hands together in sincere appreciation, as Flastovic rose to his feet and the whole troupe bowed. “Very fine,” the young man said. “Power and nuance, irony and pity, can’t be beaten.”
The players moved to surround Germolian, congratulating and praising his oration, commendations which he accepted as his due. Filidor saw Gavne frown as Chloe leaned in to kiss the man on his cheek, and also saw the disclamator’s hand rest possessively upon the girl’s hip a long moment.
A discreet cough sounded in Filidor’s ear, and when he turned there was Faubon Bassariot hovering beside him, clutching a pot bellied flask wrapped in red leather. The young man made introductions, and polite inquiries as to general well-being were exchanged. But the functionary declined Erslan Flastovic’s invitation to join the congerie, and in
stead coaxed Filidor away to the other side of the saloon, “So that we might discuss our plans for the morrow without troubling these good folk.”
The young man bid the mummers good night and crossed to where Bassariot led. But when they were seated at their former table, no discussion of travel plans arose. Instead, the major-domo introduced Filidor to the thick amber liquid known as Red Abandon and urged him to take a glass. It being his first essay of the legendary fiery liquor, the young man sipped gingerly, but even that small mouthful immediately took charge of his internal situation, marching straight to his stomach then fanning out to several different parts of his person. “My,” he commented, when his voice reappeared, “this is very much the upper puppy.”
“Have some more,” said Bassariot, topping up Filidor’s glass, and the young man did. The second installment burned less and spread further, and Filidor felt an elevation of spirits. “There is much to be said for new experiences,” he declared.
“And, equally,” returned the major-domo, “there is much to be said for constancy.”
Filidor poured himself a third helping, saying as he did so, “Constancy merits constant acclaim, as the saying goes.”
“Just so,” said Bassariot. “And is it still your intention to side with the Podarkes?”
The name conjured up a vision of green eyes and coppery hair. “I will do what is right,” said Filidor.
“There you have it,” said Bassariot, but Filidor had the strong impression that the man was talking to some unseen listener.
The young man drained the glass of Red Abandon. The fire in his middle had now banked to a comfortable glow, and he was aware of other unusual sensations. His arms seemed to have lengthened considerably, and he was no longer sure where his legs had got to. Faubon Bassariot’s face, across the table, had begun to enlarge, swelling to fill the young man’s vision.
Fool Me Twice (Filidor Vesh) Page 6